


Defrocked

by reddottedpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Karachi, Non-Graphic Smut, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-Sherrington, Sherlock Texting, They Finally Have Dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 09:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14494077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddottedpaper/pseuds/reddottedpaper
Summary: Her fingers gently caressed the keys of her phone and she looked down to see the message on its screen:I'll see you at dinner.SH.





	Defrocked

**Brighton, UK  
Four years and two months after Karachi**

The pier Irene stood on was bathed in warm rays of the sunset and the air smelled of rain. She hugged her fur coat closer to herself, having only a thin layer of evening dress underneath. What a beautiful end to a day, she thought to herself. The gentle waves were washing the shore slowly, seemingly setting down and getting ready for the night, just as the people in these streets were. The Woman touched the iron railing and her gaze focused on the sun in the distance slowly extinguishing in the ocean. Her fingers gently caressed the keys of her phone and she looked down to see the message on its screen: 

_I'll see you at dinner.  
SH._

She smirked and held the little device close to her chest, sucking in her cheek. Time to see her favourite detective in a funny hat. She turned around and got into the cab that had arrived and was now waiting for her. 

"The Gingerman, please." 

"Yes, ma'am," answered the cabbie and the car started moving away from the pier. 

Sherlock Holmes. The detective had left her destroyed, begging for mercy, her whole life crumpled right in front of those bright blue eyes while he didn't move a single muscle and just watched. Oh how much she despised him, his brain, his cold heart and even colder actions. She was so close to the finish line when she had made that mistake. Falling for The Virgin wasn't graceful of The Dominatrix, it wasn't logical, it wasn't clever at all and yet it was inevitable. And the unknown feeling of heartbreak at the sight of him leaving through the door while she was left in shambles set fire to the world around her. 

Oh how clever he was, observant and cocky and dramatic and desperate to show it. How confused and lost and _blushing_ he was when she made a move on him in his flat. 

She couldn't hate him for long. 

She longed for him. Even in the exile he was the cause of. 

He found his way into her mind every single day, bringing up the corners of her perfectly painted lips. And he was the only one she wished to say goodbye to when it was her time to die. 

She could recall being surprised at how steady her fingers were in her last moments when she typed the text. It was the desire to stand tall and pride in front of Sherlock Holmes for the last time, to show him that she wasn't beaten, not anymore. To not have him forget her. To have him remember her as much as she remembered him. To have herself etched into his mind as The Woman who beat him, not the one who lost. 

And hearing his voice behind her, the heat that slid down her back and opened her eyes proved to her that he never thought of her that way. That she was on his mind just as often. That he'd tripped and fallen just as she did. 

The smile she couldn't hide was euphoric. 

Oh Mr. Holmes, 

you surprise me. 

There were people walking barefoot down the shore, playing in the water, enjoying one of the few very warm days this spring had had so far, all of this running fast past the cab's window and amusing the woman sitting inside. This was to be the day she finally had dinner with Sherlock Holmes. Irene didn't know if he meant it in the same indelicate way as her or not. And she wasn't sure at all which option she liked more; seducing Sherlock Holmes or being seduced by Sherlock Holmes? Her heart fluttered inside her chest and hot blood raced through her veins at the thought. What a delightful evening this was gonna be. 

The cab stopped in front of the restaurant and Irene stepped out, catching the glance of the doorman who was already opening the door for her. Once Irene walked inside the restaurant she let her coat fall down her shoulders, revealing the long silk dress she was wearing tonight. Black as night and soft as feathers, patting gently her skin with every move. Little stars sparsely adorned the dress from her waist down to the floor, only a slit in the dress parting the sky to reveal her bright skin. She held her head high, her hair perfectly curled up, complimenting her neck and bare back, as she walked up to the table and smiled at the waiter. 

"Good evening, may I have a table?" 

"Yes, ma'am," muttered the young boy looking at her like she's the sun lighting up the night. 

"In the name Sherlock Holmes," sang a deep voice behind her. 

She wished her skin didn't prickle with excitement as it did, she wished she didn't immediately turn around with the dark blush in her cheeks. But she did. Seeing the man she fell for and hated and longed for this whole time. 

Sherlock stood tall and handsome right next to her, not even giving her a glance. The usual black suit on with a dark blue button up undearneath, hair beautiful and curly, cheekbones high and chiseled like they sculpted him out of marble. She stared at him like he was a God and she bit her lip when her eyes slid down to his neck. He always kept the first two buttons of his shirt undone. Christ. 

"Yes, sir. This way," the waiter bowed his head and offered them a hand to show the way. 

This time Sherlock's eyes locked in with hers and he offered her his arm which she took with a smile. 

Her heart beat a thousand beats a minute and she felt hot and dizzy in his presence, feeling like a schoolgirl having a crush on a professor. They got seated opposite of each other at a small intimate table, two tall candles burning away in the middle of it, a bottle of red wine between them. When she focused on his eyes as they watched each other, she saw the excitement, the nervousness he wasn't willing to show. A smirk tugged on her red lips. 

"I'm very glad you're joining me tonight, Mr. Holmes." 

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Adler," he answered as he poured her a glass of wine. 

She took it with a quizzical look, "Won't you have a glass with me?" 

"I'm afraid not. I much prefer my mind unclouded and in full control." 

"That makes two of us who enjoy being in control," she purred as she took a sip of the wine. 

The red appearing in his face made her smile a wicked smile, he looked away from her for a second to get his bearings. 

"Back in bussiness, I assume." 

Irene slowly returned back to a professional blank expression. 

"Yes, I'm doing quite well." 

"Americas?" 

"Paris." Irene leaned in on the table to be closer to him, flirtous grin aimed at Sherlock, "Canada occasionally. Los Angeles. I generally try to stay away from the land of the queen." 

"Understandable, considering the great crimes you've comitted." 

Her eyes glistened with flames and her grin deepened, he liked to remind her that she was naughty. She didn't mind at all. 

"But I do make exceptions," she made sure to not let him look away. 

"Sometimes," her hand slowly slid up the table to have her fingers cover his, "The risk is worth it." 

Sherlock didn't move away and with a missed heartbeat, she felt him brush her index finger with his thumb. 

"Must be an important client." 

She smiled wide, not hiding how her eyes watched his nose, lips, his throat. She wanted to attack him whole. 

"I'm afraid I wouldn't risk that much for a client," she let out silently. 

Sherlock's eyebrows twitched up a bit. 

After their hasty escape from the terrorist cell's base, Irene and Sherlock found refuge in a local farmer's home. The man and his family had nothing but a few sheep and a small piece of land with dry crops, yet they offered them food and a roof over their head for the night. The detective had somehow managed to talk with the man and explain their situation. Irene didn't fake the smile she gave the man and his wife when they introduced them their kids and brought them food. Her heart was still beating fast and hard, they were still on dangerous grounds, yet she felt the safest she ever did in the last few years of her life. In a fragile cottage somewhere in Pakistan, with Sherlock Holmes in robes that didn't belong to him, eating vegetable stew and listening to language she didn't understand but understood at the same time, listening to stories this family had to share. They offered them the barn to sleep in and neither Sherlock nor Irene could be happier to accept. 

"Get some sleep, we are leaving early in the morning." 

Those were the first words he'd said to her since his order to run. She didn't even realize it but they didn't speak at all this whole time. They didn't need to. Gestures and glances were enough to get them here, to safety, for now. They had to leave as soon as possible, so the family wouldn't be in danger, so the terrorists didn't find them. 

There was so much on her mind, so many questions, so many thanks she wanted to kiss into his skin, so much anger she wanted to whip into him. She saw him looking at her with a candlestick in his hand, the flames throwing shadows onto his perfect features, and she couldn't say a single word, couldn't find the strenght to speak up. There was nothing she could say he didn't already know. Nothing those blue eyes of his didn't already read from her. Tired, sweaty, weak and exhausted, Irene took off the headscarf, put a blanket down onto the hay and curled up on its surface. She felt the blanket dip under his weight and opened her eyes to see him lie down next to her, facing the ceiling. 

His face was so calm. He washed his face in the house but there was still dirt behind his ears, in the wrinkles near his eyes, his cheekbones glistened with sweat and he wore cargo pants and a linen shirt. Yet he looked so himself. So perfect. Feeling her heart finally slowing down, Irene felt safe and ready to sleep. She closed her eyes and without a question asked curled up to the detective like a tired fawn, resting her head on his chest. They slept the whole night. 

He woke her up by rubbing her back with his palm, then acted as if it never happened. They left the house and Sherlock led her to a bolthole of his in the city where they both found clean clothes that fit them and documents they needed to escape. Irene smirked when she realized he got her a dress that was definitely her style. They didn't say goodbye. They just left separately. 

The waiter brought them food and both Sherlock and Irene leaned away from each other, letting go. They were eating in silence, Irene occasionally taking a sip of her wine, making sure her lipsticks marked the glass. The eye contact the two held was like a battle, whoever chose to dodge first was the one who lost so both of them fought for the victory. 

"I've heard of your passing." 

"That's old news," he drank some of his water, dismissively scanning the surroundings and not looking at her. 

She took a second to just study his body language. He looked annoyed, perhaps his staged suicide was a soft spot. Unsuprisingly. 

"I was devastated," she whispered almost. 

"I doubt you were, considering you knew that I wasn't truly dead." 

"Did I now?" 

His eyes locked with hers, he was giving her the "we both know the answer to this" look. She hated it and she reveled in it. 

"Perhaps we both have a talent for faking our deaths, Miss Adler." 

"An unusual talent, wouldn't you say, Mr. Holmes?" 

"Yes," he looked back down on his plate, "And one I'm not interested in using too often." 

They finished their dinner and the waiter carried away the plates. Sherlock poured more wine into her glass. 

"What other talents do you have?" her eyes sparkled with flirtous mischief, "You already know most of mine." 

The detective swallowed a bit too hardly and fixed his collar a little bit, Irene playfully licked her teeth. 

"I'm certain you already know what I can do when-" 

"I haven't a clue," she cut him off and leaned in close. 

He stayed still, sitting upright in his chair, trying to read the dilated pupils in her eyes. 

"This is our first dinner, after all," she gave him a warm smile that hid her own purposes. 

"I would love to get to know you, Mr. Holmes. That's what dinners are for." 

"They are, aren't they?" he mumbled, captivated by her eyes. 

She had him on a hook but he was too big of a fish. Any other time she could use all her tricks and charms on him and he would still refuse and back away, but tonight, she felt as if she didn't need any of them to make him do what she wanted. Because tonight, she could see that he wanted it too. 

There were many things left unsaid. About how careful she had to be on british soil, about how he managed to slip out of London without Mycroft on his tail, about how long they haven't seen each other, how many things had happened in the meantine. And they were all to be left unsaid, because both of them already knew. 

He didn't look away from her as he raised his hand, catching the attention of the waiter. 

They left the restaurant and didn't say a single word as they sat next to each other in a cab that took them to Irene's hotel. She leaned onto his arm as they walked through the lobby and took an elevator up to her floor. She opened the door to her room and looked at him over her shoulder. He stood there like a soldier, heels close and back straight, watching her. She smiled as she pushed her door open, her hands resting on her hips. 

"What do you deduce of this situation, detective?" 

She watched his adam's apple bob as he swallowed and scanned her from her toes up. He noted to himself that her pupils were dilated, her eyes watching his lips, her body facing his whenever she spoke, her nails digging into her palms with anticipation, the way she swung her door open to welcome him inside. He saw all the signs and he knew what all of them meant. But something deep inside kept him from making the leap needed. 

"I suspect you want me to come inside with you." 

"And?" she took a step closer to him and pressed up against his chest, her hands feeling the cloth of his iconic big coat. 

"And.." he whispered, looking into her eyes. 

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," she watched his lips and wanted them swollen. 

"You don't need your genius brain to deduce what comes next," she grinned slowly, her fingers curled around the lapels. 

"Let's not guess," he broke the intimate moment with his deep voice on full volume. 

Irene actually blinked a few times, confused. 

"Let's see for ourselves," he fixed a button on his jacket and moved his arm towards the door. 

She could play along, she thought to herself. She didn't let her sly smile slip away as she walked inside with Sherlock following her and closing the door behind him. She took off her coat and rested it down on a chair, Sherlock did the same, his scarf lying next to the coat on a table near the door. He approached her with his hands in his pockets, both of them standing at the feet of the big hotel room bed. There were maybe two feet between their bodies, Irene looking up into his eyes and he staring down at her in return. The silence that enveloped them was somehow soothing, their eye contact once again a battle. Irene recalled the night in Karachi, when neither of them needed to talk to understand each other. 

That's who they are, she realized. Silent, seemingly emotionless, partners, enemies, strangers. They don't need words to understand the other one. They don't need to decide whether it's peace, cooperation, hostility or rivalry between them. They see underneath the mask each of them is wearing. And they always keep the other one in mind, maybe even somewhere else, somewhere lower where their blood pumps the most. The Dominatrix had a piece of the Posh Boy's heart, and he had hers. 

Taking one long stride to reach her, Sherlock touched the small of her back to slowly pull her close as he touched her cheek and kissed her lips. 

Irene didn't know whether it was herself or him who pulled the dress off her shoulders, but she knew for sure it was him who kissed hot words into her throat and caressed her skin with gentle big hands. She loved the way her fingers got lost in his hair, how one moment she felt weightless and then the other she lied on soft bed sheets with her kiss stealing his breath. She held him close and tight, rubbing soothing circles into his shoulder blades, whispering obscenities into his ear. 

She went to sleep with the rouge that belonged on her lips rubbed off all over Sherlock's body. His head was resting on the pillow next to hers, his deep breath warming up the skin on her nape. His arms held her close, but not to own her or protect her. He just didn't want to be alone. Sleeping side by side together. 

The Woman woke up in the middle of the night thanks to the mattress moving as he stood up. Lifting herself up to her elbows, she watched him approach the window and rub the sleep out of his eyes. He was cute. 

Afraid to ask whether he was leaving, knowing that if he was, she couldn't make him stay longer, she stayed in bed. Sherlock moved the curtain with a finger and looked outside into the dark starry night. 

"I'm dying for a high tar cigarette," he mumbled after a while. 

Irene smirked and stood up to walk next to him. She ran her hand up Sherlock's back, enjoying the way his skin twitched under her touch, his head snapped her way. 

"You stopped smoking, didn't you?" 

"I make exceptions sometimes," he turned to face her fully. 

"Like the night I found out you were dead." 

Irene's eyes opened wide. The expression on his face wasn't cold, it wasn't acting, it wasn't a mask this time. He looked hurt at the thought of her death. His palm cradled her cheek and she leaned into his touch. 

The Woman raked a finger down his lips and stepped closer until there was no more space between them. 

" _I'm your nicotine now, Mr. Holmes_ ," she whispered and cut off her own words with a kiss on his lips.

Their bodies hit the bed again and soon the cold night air turned into steam. 

"You're much worse than that," mumbled Sherlock into her shoulder. 

He woke up alone in the morning. A bright red mark of her perfect lips on his cheekbone. His phone buzzed as if it was timed and his sleepy eyes opened to read the text: 

_Let's have dinner again. You should wear the hat._


End file.
